Suddenness

In the remarkable The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht, with which I am currently obsessed, as I have been since its first line -- and now with 30 pages to go I am in a bit of a panic, trying to slow down and unable to stop myself, knowing soon it will be finished, the story will be done -- in this remarkable book, I read a passage this morning which is now pounding through my whole body, now that I've had the news that for my baby sister, finally, after 3 1/2 years of living with glioblastoma, now finally, Tuesday, in-home hospice begins.

We're devastated, naturally.  Despite years of knowing this has been coming, inching ever closer, still there is nothing that makes you truly ready for this.  Nothing. 

But before I continue, please let me say again that if you haven't read The Tiger's Wife -- surely, positively, one of the best books I've ever read -- DO IT.  Get a copy, borrow mine, read it.  It's so full of excellent story and animals and love and pain and war and tigers.  Elephants and tigers! Really, such an amazing effort, truly outstanding.

So, way out on Page 300, the Deathless Man says to Grandfather, a Doctor, when explaining why he is not telling a man who is about to die about what's coming -- even though he knows it and has done so before, letting people know, much to their dismay, that they are about to die:

I am not warning that man because his life will end in suddenness.  He does not need to know this, because it is through the not-knowing that he will not suffer...  His life, as he is living it -- well, and with love, with friends -- and then suddenness.  Believe me, Doctor, if your life ends in suddenness you will be glad it did, and if it does not you will wish it had.  You will want suddenness, Doctor...  You do not prepare, you do not explain, you do not apologize.  And with you, you take all contemplation, all consideration of your own departure.  All the suffering that would have come from knowing comes after you are gone, and you are not a part of it.

Speaking to my brother-in-law this afternoon, as he was making his way from the ER to a nearby cafe for a muffin, hearing all of the exhaustion in his voice, I felt how deeply this is true -- that suddenness can be a mercy.  He's wrung out, he told me, wrung out from 3 1/2 years of this cancer, of this going from one treatment to the next, surviving, loving, hoping against hope.

And now here we are.  Walking just one day at a time and not thinking ahead too much but knowing that the time for curative treatment is over.  Palliative care -- keeping my sister comfortable through the end stages of this disease -- is all we can do now.  Love and comfort and more love.

It's a horrible thing, really, to die for so long, to suffer so hard, to lose so much, gobbled steadily by cancer and a cocktail of drugs.  And yet my brave sister has survived so long, long enough to see her adorable daughter have her fifth birthday, smash open a dog-shaped pinata and rain candy down on her cousins and friends.  

Life is like that, a shine of sweets tumbling over us in sunlight, a mad scramble for joy hidden in the grass.  Big smiles and laughter, and also broken hearts.

We head into the final stages of this journey and I wonder, really wonder, about suddenness.  I'm glad my sister has lived this long, but I deeply regret so much suffering, so very much pain and loss. I wonder about the Deathless Man -- part of me knows he's right about suddenness -- but selfishly I'm grateful for every single breath my sister still draws, glad of any opportunity to see her face and hear her voice.  It's hard and awful but, in its own way, still beautiful, still sweet, sweet candy in our mouths.

XX

weekend plans: ho hum & so yum

The big question at the office on Fridays, especially on the Friday before a three-day weekend, is "Any big plans this weekend?"  The receptionist in our office is generally the one who asks, of pretty much everyone who crosses his path that day.  I always wish I didn't have the TGIF going so strong, but I do, so I'm always a little giddy on Fridays, eager for the break -- when I actually get one -- and delighted to hear the question asked and answered, vicariously enjoying other people's weekend activities, especially when they're very different from my own.

The truth is that this weekend, the one I'm sitting in right now, feels like it's the first "normal" one in some time.  First Joe was gone for a weekend, then we were both gone the following weekend, then the weekend after that I worked on Sunday, and here it is NOW, this weekend, and we're both here and I don't have to work.  And it's three days long.  From the standpoint of this Saturday morning, the time is unrolled out in front of me, mostly empty, fat with potential.

Joe will be racing tomorrow, his first race of this season, his first race since that catastrophic crash last March which broke 4 ribs, the right clavicle and scapula and punctured his lung. And put a hole in his confidence on the bike.  The driver's insurance company can compensate him for the destroyed frame, the medical bills, the time off work, the pain and suffering, but that hole in his confidence -- that's a tricky thing.  So I'm so, so glad he's out there, so strong right now, ready to engage in the race with his teammates, do well, have fun, feel good.  

Me?  When I was asked yesterday if I had any Big Plans for the weekend, I think I said something like No plans.  Nothing.  Just staying home and I'm so glad.  But I realize now, now that I'm sitting here with my coffee, puppy at my feet, that I was being coy, perhaps, not speaking up about what's really on my list.  Since really, when people are answering things like "going to the movies," "going surfing," "having a romantic dinner with my fiancee at X fancy-pants restau," I realize that my REAL answer is very different and I am a little shy about saying it.  Lame!

Bookworms: stand proud!  Writers: shout it out!

The real answer to what I'm doing this weekend? The Usual: Reading and Writing.  Left to my own devices, besides hiking with the dog, tending the bees and all the other activities associated with my suburban farmlet, all I ever want to do is Read and Write.  And so this weekend's To Do list features finishing The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht, reading the last 60 pages of Martha Beck's new Finding Your Way in a Wild New World, making headway in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver so that I can produce my blog post (due Monday) for my beloved From Left to Write online blogger bookclub.  And starting on a book that my so-thoughtful sister had dedicated to me and sneakily mailed, without saying a word: Invoking Lakshmi by Constantina Rhodes.  

Oh, and last but by no means least, working on my own book.  Yes, it's time.

Around all of that, naturally, will be wound some other stuff -- taking clothes to consignment, making dinner for friends, paying bills, hanging out with Joe outside, pulling weeds or staring at the sky (likely both). Taking dozens of pictures of Mr Burns and delighting in his puppyhood, his snuggliness, his ability to get along with everybody, no matter their species.

But what I am most eager for -- the secret drive that underlies everything else -- is always the words on the page, someone else's or my own, always words and stories and books.  Always this funny thing we're able to do, making these meaningful squiggles that transmit so much, working this crazy so-human magic.  Writers are wizards, truly, dunking the readers' heads in the pensieve, immersing us in the experiences of others.  I can't really think of much else that's more satisfying or delightful.

So now, getting down to it.  Wrapping this up so that I can find a cozy spot with Burnsy, him napping, me reading, coffee and pencil within easy reach.

These are my plans for the weekend.  These are my plans for my whole life, really.  Ho hum for some, probably, but for me, so yum.

XX

oh, fiction: thank goodness

Someone whom you may know, someone who shall remain nameless, used to criticize my reading -- I was much more interested, too interested it has been said, in what was happening in books, lacking in attention for what was really happening in front of my nose.  I countered -- in my head, because in those days I didn't dare say things out loud -- that indeed I was much more interested, blessedly too interested, in what was happening in books precisely BECAUSE OF what was happening in front of my nose.  I could start and stop the book-story, enter and re-enter that book-reality, at will. Where over other things, admittedly, I did not exercise much, if any, control.

And so it is today.

I'm exhausted from the weekend, lacking in stamina for the pursuits that amuse my friends, a bit green around the gills from fatigue, a migraine closing in.  I was in a lot of pain last night from my left hip, a casualty of an overly optimistic yoga session this weekend, a two-hour hike through slushy, gorgeous Blackwood Canyon at Lake Tahoe, and because I stubbornly refused to swallow more pills. I lasted three hours at my job this morning, felt grouchy with everyone in every interaction and suddenly knew it was time to pack it in.  So I came back here and slept for 1 1/2 hours.

But first I read.

Since January 1 of this year, I've been reading one non-fiction after another.  First I finished Quiet by Susan Cain, and then got to within 60 pages of the end of Martha Beck's new book, then started on the next bookclub book, Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Mineral.  Guess what?  They're all great, but guess what?  They're all non-fiction.

I need some escape.  I need some fiction.

So before the very uncharacteristic nap this afternoon, I started The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht.  From this very first line, hooked, deep:

In my earliest memory, my grandfather is bald as a stone and takes me to see the tigers.

For nearly two hours of daylight, I slept, puppy cozy at my side, though not straight through. I kept waking up and wishing to reach for the book, to find out what comes after page 35, after 60, into the 200s, but I forced myself to remain curled on my side, glasses off, no book.  Now I am finally out of bed, cup of tea, nursing this headache and getting ready to dive back in.

In all that's happening out there in the world, I will never know 100% of anyone else's truth but my own, and even that sometimes eludes and surprises me.  What happens in other places, under the surfaces of things, remains largely inscrutable to me.  I may never know if life exists on other planets or be able to see what others see when they close their eyes and dream, let alone understand what motivates people I know to potentially troubling acts.  But with a book, with this book right now, I can keep my eyes wide open and venture and drift into a truth I can hold between my hands, letting the rest beyond just slip away.  

This is a fiction, a fabrication, that I crave.  The rest, it is really true (you were right), not so much.

Feeling so grateful right now to all of the writers in my long life of reading, strangers to me mostly, who've given me this sweet gift, let me slip gracefully into the story and find happiness in the pages of a book.  Oh, fiction: thank goodness.  Yes. Delight.

XX